


Flower Crowns and Buttercups

by TwistedGalaxies



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bathing/Washing, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, One Shot, Showverse, flower crowns and dumb gays, no beta we die like men, rape/sexual assault mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26457730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedGalaxies/pseuds/TwistedGalaxies
Summary: “And for the gods’ sake, get that stupid thing off your head!” the alderman shouted to his back.Geralt froze before quickly pivoting on his heels and administering a swift punch to the man’s face, a satisfying crack filling the room. Blood poured from the man’s nose, “Y-You punched me!” he looked over his shoulder, “The bloody brute punched me!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 237





	Flower Crowns and Buttercups

Geralt leaned against the rickety, wooden fence, his armor the only thing standing between him and back full of splinters. His arms were crossed, to most outside observers his face was brooding, irritated even. But those who know him well, who took the time to _look_ , to see him, could see the fondness in his wheat-hued eyes. Before him was a vast field of wildflowers: poppies, foxgloves, daisies, forget-me nots, dandelions, and countless others that he didn’t care about identifying lit up in a radiant orange from the setting sun.

Jaskier, clad in silks that shared the same color as his name-sake, bounded up to Geralt, a delicately woven flower crown in hand, nearly identical to the one perched on his head. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, an unspoken question hanging in the air. Jaskier was damn near _bouncing_ as he approached, his grin was blinding and he held it out to his companion, rambling all the while. “So anyways, I made one for you! What do you think?”

Geralt’s face shifted into a glare and he let out an annoyed huff, the damn thing looked ridiculous. It blended into Jaskier’s bright ensemble, but on him? Hell no.

“Come on, don’t be like that, I’m sure you’ll look absolutely _charming_ with this on your head. It’ll certainly make you less intimidating once we get to the tavern, maybe you won’t even need to haggle the price down for our room. Besides, the lovely lady I used to bed in Oxenfurt always said-”

By this time, Geralt tuned the bard out, shifting his gaze back to the field, it seemed to expand endlessly into the horizon, the skyline broken only by the occasional tree and bush. He was here for a contract, as per usual. A gryphon had been spotted in the area, and was responsible for the unfortunate demise of many unsuspecting travelers. It was a particularly odd spot for a gryphon to appear in this area. The winged creatures were solitary, territorial things, usually sticking to mountains, the rocky crags perfect for raising their young in isolation. The town he and Jaskier had stopped at was bustling, a popular stop for travelling merchants and wanderers before they reached Novigrad to the south. He’d spent the previous night scouting the area while the bard played in the inn for enough coin to order a room and a much deserved bath. The gryphon seemed to have been nesting in the nearby foothills, sticking to the forest north of the town. It would have lived its life in relative peace had some idiots not smashed apart its clutch of eggs. 

Geralt was abruptly snapped out of his train of thought by a sudden, very light weight on his head. “Bard,” he growled in warning as Jaskier placed the flower crown on his head.

“What?” Jaskier asked, head tilted in mock innocence and eyes wide, “It looks good on you, rather handsome really. Now if only you let me work on the rest of your wardrobe, All of that black does terrible things to your complexion.”

As Geralt opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort - because really why would he care about something as frivolous as his complexion? - A loud screech filled the air.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered under his breath and unsheathed his silver sword, “Stay back, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Me, stupid? Why I-”

Geralt ignored the chatterbox as he charged forward. The gryphon landed in the middle of the flower field, attracted to the bait Geralt had laid out this morning. He was only thankful it hadn’t landed moments earlier, when Jaskier had been out in the flower field despite Geralt’s many, many protests because “...the flower fields are just so _lovely_ this time of year, and it would just be a shame not to enjoy them, and really Geralt, you should just take the time to enjoy the finer things in life.” Geralt shook his head slightly, as if to banish the bard’s voice from his head, it seemed that even physical distance couldn’t quiet that man’s speech.

He veered left, aiming for the gryphon’s wing as he charged. It began to take to the air as he approached and Geralt cursed, hastily casting Aard to halt its ascent. Aiming for the wings would prove to be a mistake as the creature swiped at him viciously with its claws. Geralt was barely able to dodge, twisting his body to the right and raking the gryphon’s side with his sword. It lunged towards him once again with a howl, using its other set of sharp claws. He wasn’t so lucky this time, taking a direct hit to the chest. It wasn’t deep enough to take him out of commission, but Geralt would _definitely_ be feeling this in the morning. He thrusted his sword forward and stabbed the gryphon through the eye, causing blood to spurt everywhere and for the creature to howl out in pain as it grew limp. Geralt, going into a wide stance for leverage, ripped his sword out of the creature and began the task of dismembering the thing. _Head for proof, feathers, brains, claws, and eyes - no, eye, the right one was absolutely destroyed - for alchemy (or to sell if the alderman proved to be cheap.)._

Covered in muck, gore, and weighed down by the spoils in his arms, Geralt returned to the fence, where Roach was. Much to his horror, he arrived only to find countless flowers woven into his horse’s mane and a very, very smug Jaskier. He let out a groan of annoyance at the sight.

“It stayed!”

“Hm?”

“The flower crown, it stayed on your head!”

“What did you do to my horse?” Geralt moved towards Roach’s saddlebags, digging around for the familiar texture of burlap.

“Well, I figured that since we both look so dashing Roach should match, _shouldn’t you, pretty girl,_ and I-” Geralt shot him a glare and Jaskier raised his hands in defense, “Now I know you don’t like me touching her but she just looked so downtrodden (I would be too if I had someone as grumpy as you as my owner) so I figured it would raise her mood and-”

“Shut up, Bard.” Geralt said, his voice a deep rumble. Of course, this did nothing to silence his companion, the statement was more a force of habit if anything by this point, a part of their dynamic and relatively one sided banter. He shoved the harvested gryphon parts into burlap sacks, and then shoved those into sacks so the blood wouldn’t soak through and into their supplies. Jerky and monster blood are a match made in hell and a mistake Geralt wasn’t willing to repeat.

That taken care of, the pair rode back into town, Geralt mounted atop Roach and Jaskier by his side, Lute in hand. Their arrival was met with hostile looks and whispered insults. The duo parted ways, Jaskier to barter with the innkeeper for rooms, and Geralt to deliver the gryphon’s head to the Alderman.

The alderman jumped in surprise as the massive gryphon head was plopped on his desk. He looked unimpressed as he rummaged through his bag and slid 60 Orens towards the Witcher.

“I was promised more than this. Much more,” Geralt began, the last part of his sentence beginning to warp into a growl.

The alderman shrugged, his rat-like face something cruel, “Just be thankful we paid you instead of hung you, _freak_.”

Geralt’s knuckles turned white from the sheer force of will it took to not wring the scrawny man’s neck, “Fine,” he spat out and took the money, walking towards the door. He just wanted to get this night over with. To slip into a warm bath and breathe in the smell of chamomile as Jaskier’s nimble fingers wove their way through his silver hair, something he would never admit he enjoyed out loud.

“And for the gods’ sake, get that stupid thing off your head!” the alderman shouted to his back. 

Geralt froze before quickly pivoting on his heels and administering a swift punch to the man’s face, a satisfying crack filling the room. Blood poured from the man’s nose, “Y-You punched me!” he looked over his shoulder, “The bloody brute punched me!”

Before the situation could escalate any further, Geralt left and headed towards the inn. It was a decent way’s walk to get there as Jaskier had stabled Roach on his behalf. The streets were lined with various stalls, the vendors barking out advertisements and solicitations. Normally, Geralt would ignore them but something caught his eye as he walked by one of the stalls. A golden buttercup pin that flashed in the receding sunlight. He stopped and walked over to the stall.

The woman tending it greeted him with a smile, her booth full of various jewelry and glittering paraphernalia. This saccharine grin, however, quickly dropped when she saw who it was approaching her, “How can I help you today Mr. Witcher?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“This pin,” Geralt began, “How much?”

“Normally? Eighty Orens,” she swallowed nervously, “But for you sir, I’ll make it free provided you do something for me.”

Geralt crossed his arms and sighed, indicating that she should continue.

“You see, there’s a man staying in the Meadowsweet Inn that keeps stopping by my stall,” she drops her voice down to a whisper, as if afraid that others will hear, “He keeps coming by and making… comments. Saying things so crass and untowards that it would make sailors blush. Last night he,” her voice cracked, “He got me alone as I was walking home at night he pulled me into the alleyway and…” The woman covered her hand with her mouth, choking back a cry.

Geralt’s gaze softened, “I’ll help you, just tell me his - and your - name.”

“My - my name is Abigail. He goes by Aiden Marcrove, he’s a tall fellow - about your height - and his hair is strawberry blonde, goes to his shoulders,” Abigail provided, wringing her hands together nervously, “I’m sorry for asking this of you sir but can you, can you please make sure he leaves me alone? I tried going to the town guards but they just laughed me off.”

“It’s fine, I should be back soon, okay?”

“Okay. Be careful and _thank you_.”

A mission in mind now, Geralt set off determinedly towards the inn. It wasn’t his preference to have _more_ shit to do, especially with the gaping wound in his chest, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t help someone in need. Especially since he knew someone who’d love that pin.

Geralt walked into the noisy and too damn bright inn. Jaskier was weaving around the room, singing a song about cursed treasure and bandits when he spotted the witcher and made his way towards him, “Hey if it isn’t my best frie-”

“Not now bard,” Geralt muttered, shooting a look to convey some semblance of what was going on. He tried to ignore the hurt that briefly flickered over the bard’s face quickly replaced by understanding. Jaskier drifted off to another part of the inn and Geralt scanned the room, looking for a mop of strawberry blonde hair.

 _There, by the back door._ A lanky young man that fit the description Abigail gave sat with a group of other men, laughing and singing along off key to the music. His face was flushed and he seemed to be most of the way through a cup of ale. Geralt quietly approached him and placed a hand on his shoulder, “Are you Aiden Macrove?”

“Yesss and what’sh it to you, witcher?” The man, Aiden, replied, a lopsided grin on his face.

“There’s a young woman out back looking for you, real pretty too,” Geralt said, hoping that his poorly constructed lie would land, it was enough of a struggle to improvise it, but he’d prefer that to getting thrown out of the tavern.

“Really?” Aiden stood up and grinned to his compatriots, “I guess I’ll have to bid you goodnight men, it seems like last night finally convinced the damn whore after she got a sample.” He staggered out the back door. Geralt waited a beat before following him. The door led to a back alleyway next to the stables. 

“Hold on a second-” Aiden began, but was quickly cut off as Geralt slammed him into the brick wall, knocking the air from the man’s lungs. Geralt threw him to the ground and drew his steel sword, pointing it to Aiden’s neck. The bastard looked damn near ready to piss himself.

“Tomorrow morning, you’re leaving this town, and you’re going to forget you ever met Abigail. If I hear that you ever touch her, ever _breath_ e near her again,” Geralt pushed his sword lightly into his neck, enough to draw blood but not do any real damage, “I swear to the gods I will find you, and I will kill you. Understand?”

Aiden nodded, his eyes wide and the air around him saturated with the sour smell of fear.

“Good,” Geralt sheathed his sword and let the man stand up. Typically, he wouldn’t take much issue with making people like Aiden into kebabs, but this town was already hostile enough as it was, especially after he punched the alderman. He didn’t need another night being woken from a dead sleep only to be driven out with pitchforks and torches. Aiden ran back into the inn, as pale as a sheet. Geralt made his way back towards Abigail, ignoring the many hissed insults and spits hurled his way by the townsfolk. 

She visibly perked up upon seeing him, “Did you…?”

“Yes,” he grumbled in response.

Abigail took his hand and placed in it the buttercup pin. His eyes widened in surprise at the sudden contact and warmth. “Thank you,” she said, tone heartbreakingly genuine. He pulled away, placing the pin into his pocket and nodded before departing.

-@~*^*~@-

Later that night, as Geralt relished in the warmth of the recently drawn bath and took in the scent of chamomile, Jaskier asked him a question, “So what happened out there earlier?”

The witcher responded with a low hum in the back of his throat.

“No, seriously, I see you walk in, walk out with that rather cute fellow, and he walks back in looking like he’s seen a ghost and rushes to his room, doesn’t even say hi to his buddies. What did you do? Introduce him to your-”

“Not cute,” Geralt responded with a huff, “I was helping out one of the merchants, he’d been harassing her for a while and.. hurt her last night.”

He felt the fingers washing his hair pause for a moment, “I see, I’m glad you took care of that then.”

“Mhm.”

“So why’d you help her then?”

“Bring me my bag.”

“But Geralt,” Jaskier whined, “My hands are wet!”

“Don’t care, bring me my bag.”

Jaskier sighed and grabbed the well-loved leather bag from across the room and placed it by the witcher. He crouched down across from Geralt, leaning on his arms on the rim of the tub as Geralt rummaged around for a moment before procuring a glistening buttercup pin. He held it out to Jaskier, “For you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up, threatening to invade his hairline as he took the pin, “For me? I- Why - I mean, thank you it’s beautiful but why would you - ?”

Geralt made a sound that threatened to become a laugh.

A sigh, “You can’t keep doing this to me Geralt.”

“Hm?”

“I just,” Jaskier threw his hands up in the air, “You keep giving me these mixed signals, one minute you seem to detest me and the next you do this and I-”

Geralt cut him off with a gentle kiss, Jaskier made a sound of surprise before leaning into it, kissing back. Geralt pulled away and leaned his forehead against Jaskier’s. “Shut up, bard.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope this fic was okay, it's the first one I've written in a long time. I really like the Netflix series but my knowledge about the books and games is spotty at best so if anything is inaccurate please let me know. Feel free to give kudos and leave a comment if you wish <3


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